


The Dangers Of Tiny Cakes

by bowieboosh



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Old Married Couple, Oneshot, Sickfic, Sort Of, in the mildest possible sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 13:12:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowieboosh/pseuds/bowieboosh
Summary: Angels aren't supposed to get stomach aches. Aziraphale gets one anyway.





	The Dangers Of Tiny Cakes

The noise Aziraphale was making was not a noise angels usually made. Halfway between a groan and a whimper, he sounded more like an injured dog than a supernatural hand of God.  
‘Angels aren’t supposed to get stomach aches!’ He whined pitifully, sounding far more pathetic than he would have liked.  
‘Angels aren’t supposed to eat that many tiny cakes,’ came the thoroughly unsympathetic-sounding drawl.

Crowley was, strictly speaking, right. Angels didn’t need to eat at all, meaning that the number of tiny cakes they actually _needed_ to eat was a firm zero. Aziraphale pouted at him anyway.

‘Well, I wouldn’t have had to if you’d at least tried some. Honestly, Crowley, I can’t understand how you can sit across from such food and not be tempted to even the slightest taste.’ Crowley smirked in the same way he always did when Aziraphale made that particular slip-up.  
‘I’m a demon, angel, I’m not usually on the receiving end of temptation’  
‘Oh, hush, you know what I mean. Really though, Crowley, afternoon tea at Claridge’s and you didn’t eat a bite. I despair of you sometimes, I really do.’  
‘Are you going to keep wittering? Is wittering a side effect of a stomach ache?’ Aziraphale glared at him. Well, as much as he ever glared at Crowley, which is to say he gave him a reprimanding frown. He had quite a good reprimanding frown, very reproachful. He was fairly sure Crowley had borrowed it when he was Warlock’s nanny.  
‘There’s no need to be so snippy.’  
‘Yes there is, there’s every need. I have a whining angel with a self-induced stomach ache clinging onto my arm like some sort of damsel with a fit of the vapours, I’ll be as snippy as I like’  
‘Well if that’s the attitude you’re going to take,’ Aziraphale straightened up as best he could and tried to disentangle his arm from Crowley’s. Crowley said nothing, but placed a firm hand on Aziraphale’s forearm with a glare (his being rather better than Aziraphale’s), keeping him in place. Aziraphale harrumphed, maintaining an air of irritated reluctance, but inwardly he wore a smile so satisfied that it bordered on smug.

They walked back to the shop at their usual leisurely pace, with Aziraphale occasionally whining and Crowley griping back at him. Those passing them would have been reminded of an old married couple, unaware of just how old the two actually were (or, for that matter, just how married). When they arrived, Crowley gave him a more-or-less gentle push in the direction of the overstuffed sofa, a fairly recent addition to the shop’s back room, and immediately made himself scarce. Aziraphale stood in place for a moment, a little unsure of what to do with himself. When banging and clattering began to come from the kitchenette, he considered going through to check everything was alright. When the noises began to be accompanied by increasingly loud mutterings of, well, the sorts of things one might expect a demon to say, he thought better of it, and perched himself obediently on the edge of the sofa, his back straight and his hand folded primly in his lap. When Crowley came back into the room, he scoffed.  
‘Sit properly, you berk’  
‘Crowley!’  
‘Don’t ‘Crowley’ me, you pillock, just sit properly. Honestly, all the complaining about a stomach ache and then you sit like you’re in an audience with that bastard Gabriel’  
‘As if I’d make any special effort for Gabriel,’ he shot back, affronted. ‘After all he’s put us through, and you think I’d -’ He broke off abruptly. ‘Crowley?’ He asked hesitantly, ‘Is that a teacup?’ Aziraphale couldn’t see past the dark glasses, but he was fairly sure Crowley rolled his eyes.  
‘No, angel, it’s the Taj Mahal. Yes, it’s a bloody teacup, what else would it be?’  
‘You’re just not usually seen handling teacups, that’s all. Not a very demonic sort of thing to carry about, is it?’ A moment’s pause in which Crowley looked unimpressed and Aziraphale tried to work out quite what had caused the odd tableau before him Suddenly struck by the fear that he had been an ungracious host, his face fell. ‘Oh, my dear chap, you should have said! Really, I’m glad you feel so at home here, but you should have let me, if only I’d thought I would have offered, I do apologise -’  
‘Are you done?’  
‘I’m sorry, Crowley, I just didn’t think to offer -’  
‘Angel.’ Aziraphale’s rambling apologies halted. ‘Of course I didn’t make myself tea, I don’t drink tea, I’m not some poncy fop,’ He continued on, ignoring the small noise of offence that came from Aziraphale. ‘I made tea for you, you were supposed to be resting, but for some reason you don’t seem able to sit like a normal human’  
‘Well, technically -’  
‘Shut it. Sit, drink tea, it’ll help. Stop getting yourself into a flap over everything like a nervous pigeon.’ He gave Aziraphale’s shoulder a push downward with one hand and passed him the cup of tea with the other. ‘Pigeons were one of mine, you know. People hate pigeons, they do loads for Hell. Kids chase them, stops those pesky ‘be kind to all creatures great and small’ nonsense. Everyone else just hates them because they look grubby or because they crap everywhere. They cause loads of little sins, loads of little forays into wroth, and all of them add up.’

Aziraphale looked at him indulgently as he talked, slowly sipping his tea as the discomfort began to abate. Crowley’s little tangents about his demonic creations should have filled him with righteous fury, but all Aziraphale felt as he watched Crowley ramble about the benefits of pigeons for Hell’s intake figures was a warm affection. He wasn’t a very good angel, feeling warm affection as a demon talked about tempting people into sin. But, he noted as he sipped the tea made exactly to his liking, Crowley wasn’t a particularly good demon.

**Author's Note:**

> To those inevitably asking why they don't just miracle the stomach ache away - because they're fools. They are immortal buffoons and I love them so much. The frequency with which they forget their powers in the show makes me feel completely justified in having them remain oblivious to their supernatural abilities for the duration of this fic.


End file.
